


The HMS Frigate Goes Down

by arrow (esteefee), JaneDavitt



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Time, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pajamas & Sleepwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:13:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneDavitt/pseuds/JaneDavitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim gets a cold, ruins his jim-jams and wins himself a fuzzy Blair.</p><p>Comment fic sequel co-written by Jane Davitt and Arrow; posted in honor of Richard Burgi's Birthday!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The HMS Frigate Goes Down

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [When Irony Hands You Lemons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/176842) by [arrow (esteefee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/arrow). 



> Original thread is [here](http://arrow00.livejournal.com/28641.html?thread=920033#t920033).

Jim's favorite jammies die an ignoble death when an ill-timed sneeze has him spilling hot cocoa all over them. It is a terrible tragedy that makes Jim's eyes water even worse than they were from his post-nasal drip. Sandburg tries to help by buying him a new pair, but they're just not the same. 

"These are _fire trucks_ , Sandburg. Do they look like ships to you?" Jim coughs pitifully.

Blair bites his lip because he went to FOUR STORES trying to find PJs in Jim's size (XL) and this was the best he could do. Jim's nose is red like Rudolph's and Jim's voice is hoarse and croaky and yeah, he's got a fever, Blair doesn't need to touch him (wants to touch him) to know that.

So he brings out the old ship jammies and he's washed them, he really has, but there's still this big blotchy stain and Jim's face is closing down (not good, really isn't). Now that he's holding them, Blair can feel how soft they are, how good they feel against his skin and knows why Jim loves them.

But Jim won't wear them. 

So Blair does. Strips with Jim watching him, wide-eyed, glassy-eyed, totally out of it, puts them on and they've shrunk over the years, just enough that he only has to cuff the jacket and the pants a little.

Then he peels the fire-truck ones, stiff and new, off Jim's body, tosses them away, and crawls into bed with Jim, lets himself get held and cuddled and nuzzled and tries to tell himself this is part of the job description when he knows it isn't.

Jim drools a little on his shoulder round about midnight and Blair tells himself Sentinel spit is sanitary based on no data whatsoever.

Jim wakes up the next morning with his lips glued to Blair's shoulder. A wave of embarrassment swamps him, until he remembers Blair was the one who started this, who crawled into bed with him because Jim felt like crap and needed his PJs, the ones just like the pair he had when he was little and his mom was still around to tuck him in at night.

Only Blair didn't just tuck him in but tucked in with him, which really isn't in his job description as resident anthropologist and Sentinel guru. Jim wonders if he can blame this on Sentinel needs. As in—"The Sentinel of Peru would retire each evening onto a bed of _cuti cuti_ leaves gathered by his faithful guide, who would crawl in with him and let himself be cuddled and make the Sentinel feel better in spite of his head exploding with the pressure of snot like a balloon behind his eyeballs.

Later, they would celebrate the Sentinel's recovery with some hot sex."

Or maybe not.

Except judging by Blair's snuffled grunt as he latches onto Jim's arm when Jim tries to edge backward, and the thick, rich smell of a sleeping Guide with a morning erection that's pinning Jim in place just as effectively, it might be a possibility.

Jim sniffs. Even through the snot, Blair smells good in the morning. This shouldn't be something he's had to wait eighteenth months to discover. He feels unreasonably annoyed, as if Blair's been holding out on him, denying him a treat.

He stops moving and Blair makes a peculiarly smug, satisfied sound in his sleep and tucks up close so that Jim has soft as a bunny flannel plastered all over the front of his body, rubbing against him with every breath Sandburg takes. Jim's hard in moments, with nowhere for it to go but up, which means it's wedged near Blair's hip, just where the yacht with the blue sails is setting off to find pirate loot.

It's the most erotic, kinky, flat-out wrong thing in the world to be three breaths away from coming all over his (ex) favorite pair of jim-jams.

Except the PJs are so, so soft, and Jim can feel Blair's warm muscles beneath them, moving with his sweet breaths. And suddenly Jim doesn't care so much about wrong, how completely wrong it is to shoot jizz all over his sleeping guide, because he's already doing it, and hugging Blair tighter so he can rub against him through the soft flannel.

 _Jesus Christ_ it feels good, so good it takes him a second to realize Blair is holding his breath and is lying absolutely still in his arms...

"Good morning," Blair whispers eventually, because Jim's sore throat is the perfect excuse for his complete inability to utter a single, solitary word and so he isn't going to. Ever.

Blair sounds—Jim would need to make a list, there are so many different signals and vibes and emotions in those two words. Was it a question, an assurance, or force of habit? _God, throw me a bone, Chief; you just got to feel mine._

"Uh..." He swallows and yeah, his throat hurts but it's feeling better, just like all of him is noticing a marked improvement. _Fever broken? Check. Snot levels dropping? Check. Mind-blowing orgasm with miraculous sinus-clearing qualities taken care of? Check._

Blair makes an encouraging murmur.

"Uh," Jim says desperately.

Blair's fluent in many languages (he's told Jim that more than once and added 'including the language of love' looking too much as if he really thinks that's true for Jim to be able to resist delivering a well-deserved noogie). Jim decides Blair can decipher a simple 'uh' even wearing spunk-soaked PJs.

 _Oh, God, the PJs._ Jim looks down to see how bad the damage is. Yes, the _HMS Frigate_ appears to be capsizing in semen. But Jim can't really mourn properly because he's just now noticing that Blair's erection is poking out of the slit in the front. Strike that—Blair's gorgeous, erect cock, surrounded by flannel, is jerking with the beat of his pulse, begging for Jim to touch it.

"Uh," Jim says again, just so Blair understands his intent, and then reaches down and takes Blair's cock into his hand.

Blair makes a muffled _urp_ and clutches Jim's shoulder, really digging his fingers into the muscle. In the language of love, Jim understand this to mean Blair wants to be jerked off, hard and fast. 

So, Jim takes it slow.

It gets him bitten, Blair's teeth fastening onto his shoulder with a fierce, determined desperation, but it's worth it because Blair has to move one hand to make room for his mouth on Jim's skin and the displaced hand ends up on Jim's back. Blair's fingers claw and shred at spine and skin—oh, perfect, yeah, get that itch right _there_ , will you, Chief?—and Jim groans in ecstasy and rewards Blair with a flick of his thumb over the slippery smooth head the next time he's up there.

Then he makes another slow pass of his clenched fist down and up and down—agonizingly slow, glaciers would overtake him in a race—and Blair detaches his incisors from Jim's flesh just long enough to curse him, making 'sadistic son of a bitch' sound like seduction and compliment rolled up into one tight bundle.

Blair's face is flushed, hot, and strands of hair lie glued to his cheek. He's Vitamin C, chicken soup and aspirin, flannel-wrapped, take three times daily (going to take him, have to take him) and bottle this and the world would rejoice, because Jim is feeling no pain.

If he ignores the kneading of his shoulder, the clawing of his back and the way that Blair is biting him again, somewhere around his left nipple, tiny, sucking, viciously exquisite bites in time with his awkward, frenzied attempts to fuck Jim's hand and interrupt the gently remorseless rock of Jim's wrist.

But it's easy to ignore the sweet pain when Blair's pleading whimpers are shivering up Jim's neck, making him wonder what kind of sounds Blair would make if Jim rolled him over and spread him open, wide open, and pushed his cock inside where it belongs, because Blair is letting him do this, is loving this (loving him). Jim knows it, and as he keeps up the maddeningly slow stroke of his hand and Blair twists beneath him, Jim wishes he could say something, somehow tell Blair that he understands, that he wants it, too, so he leans close and whispers in Blair's ear, "Firetrucks."

Blair gasps and throws his head back, so the sweet arch of his neck is exposed, begging for Jim's teeth. As Jim bites down, Blair gives a strangled moan and throbs beautifully in his hand.

Jim has a handful of slipperiness and his mouth tastes of Blair's skin, salted with sweat and need, but it's not quite enough. After he's wiped his hand on a dry piece of flannel a few inches away from where his come has soaked in, he raises his hand to his mouth and licks it.

"I can taste it," he tells Blair and he can talk now that Blair's been reduced to gape-mouthed, blissed-out silence. "Yesterday, I couldn't taste _anything_."

"For a man who complains about algae shakes..." Blair husks. " _Fuck_ , what was that? That was good. No, that was great, except—what the hell _was_ that?"

Jim would have liked the silence to have lasted longer. He's already worked out that it equals applause and he's planning something later, when he doesn't need his mouth for breathing, that will get him a standing ovation of ooh, three minutes, easy.

Thirty seconds for a quality hand job like that—when he's still officially sick, dammit—seems a little...inadequate.

He'd been rendered incapable of speech for a full minute.

So, it's like that is it? Bring it _on_ , Sandburg...

Blair opens his eyes in time to register Jim swooping toward him, a renewed gleam in his eye that spells nothing but trouble when they are on the streets and there's a helicopter hovering nearby, or if there's a speeding bus to jump onto, but in this context it makes Blair's sated dick twitch against the soft flannel of Jim's PJs.

 _I'm never, ever giving these back,_ Blair manages to think, and then Jim is gnawing on his neck again, and, oh, Blair wants to kiss him so bad, it hurts that he can't. 

Hell, he'll probably be getting Jim's cold, anyway, from all the snuggling. It's just another opportunity to wear the pajamas, as far as Blair's concerned.

So he grins and grabs Jim's head, pulling him up to plant his lips on Jim's. 

_Bring it_ on _!_

 

_End_


End file.
